


Follow the Wind

by Tahimikamaxtli



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-07 23:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahimikamaxtli/pseuds/Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: Yasuo has lived his whole life with the wind at his side, but when it turns on him, he must carve his own path to clear his name and seek his own truth. Riven is lost, searching for something without knowing what it is she is looking for. Is it strength? Is it forgiveness? Or is it something else entirely?





	1. The Road to Ruin

The Road to Ruin:

The morning sun brought no warmth to Yasuo.

He knelt with his back to the horizon and his knees on the place where he had buried his brother. His hands were black with Yone’s blood and the dirt he had clawed away to the grave. It had taken him all morning. Time he knew he could not spare. If Yone had found him, then the others could not be far behind.

In front of him, Yone’s blade rose out of the dark earth like a gravestone. Yasuo looked up at it with storm-grey eyes that were silver with the tears he would not let fall. Late autumn winds blew through his dark hair. They were as cold as the steel of the knife between his ribs. Each second that passed twisted it deeper into his chest. He could not breathe.

The deep gash across his nose stung in the morning air. It was the only strike Yone had managed to land on him. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the agony in his lungs. Colder and colder it grew, until he could bear it no longer. His scream ripped itself free, and it echoed in the hills around him until his throat was raw. He shook with loud sobs. A leaf before a hurricane. His fingertips dug deep into the dying grass. He tore at it madly, pretending it was his own hair.

“Why didn’t you listen?”

Yasuo’s fists struck the ground. Hoping the dead could still hear.

“You damn fool, why didn’t you _listen_?”

His fists struck the ground again, with more force than before. He could do nothing else. He had called them brother. Called them friends. Shared drinks with them a lifetime ago. And like Yone, he had buried them all with bare hands. Grief was black and bottomless in the pit of his stomach.

_I was framed_.

Someone had stolen his wind. Someone had stolen his wind and murdered Elder Roku with it. Yasuo could taste the anger in his mouth. There, it ground against his teeth like grit. For six years, he had wandered without purpose. Running and hiding from himself as much as from those who hunted him. Looking for an answer without knowing what question he asked.

Yasuo raised his head to look at his brother’s sword one last time.

_Guidance._ It was what Yone had given him with his last breath. The thing that Yone had always given him. Yasuo stood. If there was one thing he had learned in all his years running, it was just how short the road to ruin could be. Yone had tried to teach him when they were no more than children. But Yasuo had never listened. He listened now, and he knew. It was a narrow and winding path, full of thorns and darkness. Yone would have tried to stop him.

_He did try,_ remembered Yasuo. _All those years ago, with a maple seed._

But Yone was dead now. And with him, his guidance. There was no other path for Yasuo now. He had seen to that much last night, with his own blade.

“I will find them, Yone.”

He reached forward with his left hand and seized his brother’s sword as hard as he could. Fresh blood ran down the blade, painting it red. The pain was sharp as the steel cut into his palm, but Yasuo did not let go. Not until he was certain that the scar would always remind him of his guilt.

_The story of a sword is inked in blood_. _And I am an artist._

“I will cut the truth from them. I swear it.”

The others would find Yone’s grave soon. They would not dare disturb it. But so long as his name was sullied, he would never be able to return to this place. Never be able to return to his brother. The knowledge steeled his resolve.

_I will not let your sacrifice be in vain._

He let go of Yone’s sword and turned away from the grave. Light stung at his eyes as the faced the direction of the rising run. Blood dripped from the fingers of his left hand and restless winds blew impatiently at his back.

“On your blood and mine, brother. I will follow the wind, to the very end.”


	2. Revelations

Revelations:

_“Brother?”_

_“What is it, Mako?”_

_“How much longer?”_

_“Not far. We’re almost there.”_

_“I’m tired, Shiro.”_

_“I know. Why don’t we take a break?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Are you hungry?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Here. Take some of my bread.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“That’s all we have left, okay? So no more asking until we get to the next town.”_

_“Okay, Shiro?”_

_“Come on, let’s keep going.”_

_“I’m tired.”_

_“I know, Mako, but we can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”_

_“I can’t, Shiro.”_

_“Get up, come on. I’ll carry you.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“I’m only going to carry you for a little bit, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Just until you can walk again, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Don’t fall asleep, okay?”_

_“But I’m so cold, Shiro.”_

_“I know, Mako. I know.”_

…

Yasuo woke up cold.

There were frozen tears in the corners of his eyes. He must have been crying in his sleep. It was a long while before he blinked them away. It was still dark in the little shack. He could hear the wind howling mournfully outside. He sat up slowly. He was shivering beneath his thin blanket. The cold crawled up his arms like shadows. His hands trembled from more than the chill. He rubbed them vainly against his icy skin. Lowering his head, he exhaled shakily into his folded arms. Just once. Then his right hand pulled itself free. He reached like a drowning man for the half-empty bottle of sake beside him.

The warmth was fleeting. But it was enough. Yasuo closed his eyes hard. But he could not forget the voice of his dead brother.

…

The blizzard had passed the next time Yasuo woke. He was grateful for that. Ionian winters were like the rest of the country. As beautiful as they were deadly. A man caught outside could freeze to death in a matter of minutes. All Yasuo had left to guard himself against the cold and the chill was a tattered traveler’s cloak. He had purchased it some weeks ago, but the elements had already taken their toll on the wool. It was torn and frayed in too many places to count. But he could not afford to give it up. It was the only one he had left. He had spent the last of Yone’s coin on the cloak and more supplies, but both had already worn thin. The storms had anything but kind in the past month. Though they had finally calmed that week.

The howling winds from the night before were all but gone now. A tranquil silence settled like snowfall over the little shack. Though he felt somewhat better-rested, Yasuo still groaned loudly as he shifted. He shook off the last lingering fingers of sleep. Shook off the memory of his brother. His neck was stiff, and his head throbbed dully from the sake. But his brother had not revisited his dreams.

_Not again._

He lay sideways on half-rotten floorboards that reminded him of the school in Katakari. He could feel the empty bottle of sake digging painfully into his ribs. A reminder of his sin. With another loud groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. The world tilted dangerously before him as he did. A forest pool disturbed by a stone. He closed his eyes momentarily as the pool threatened to swallow him whole. The hand that rested against the floorboards trembled as he steadied himself with deep breaths. He willed his mind to steady itself and succeeded halfway. He opened one eye tentatively. The morning light cut through the many gaps in the walls. Knives drove themselves into his skull one after the other.

He lifted one hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight and used the other to push himself to standing. He wobbled for a moment, uncertain, before he found his balance. A newborn deer. By the light of the rising sun, he could make out the details of his shelter better than he could the night before.

The shack was all rotted wooden floorboards and walls that had fallen away entirely in some places. There was a shallow firepit cut roughly into the center of the room. Yasuo had made welcome use of it the night before. The roof was sloped and sagging in places, but it had not collapsed under the weight of the snow. His exhale of relief was silver in the cold air.

The shack must have belonged to some hunter. One long since gone, or dead. Which one, he could not be sure. The Invasion had not reached so far north, he knew. The man would have been safe hiding if he wanted to. The forests of Ionia were kind to those who knew them. But the shack was empty and had been for some time. That much, Yasuo knew well. Whatever the man’s fate, Yasuo was grateful for his handiwork. The shack had been the best shelter he had found in a long time. It almost pained him to know that he could not linger for too much longer. It had been an uncommon stroke of luck that he had found it at all. Without it, he may very well have frozen to death in the blizzard outside. Yasuo was not used to such good fortune. The shack was well-hidden, far away from the main roads that his pursuers would have been hesitant to abandon. No one would risk leaving the safety of the road in a blizzard.

_Only a madman or a fool._

The wry smile made his chapped lips sting. His foolishness had bought him a day or two at best. The dogs had redoubled after Yone. There would be no more pause from them now. No more hesitation. They would speak with their blades. But it was enough. He could not be sure, but he believed that he was less than a day’s journey from Katakari. Less than a day’s journey to answers. His palm itched.

His blade lay on the floor beside him. The same place where he had left it when he had slept. He reached for it like a drowning man. The weight was familiar in his palm and it helped to cool some of the anger he could feel beginning to stir in his blood.

Yasuo glanced at the darkest corner of the shack. Where he had left the rest of his things. He stumbled like a drunk to the rucksack. He withdrew a short piece of flint, and set about reviving his fire. It was slow work. The shack had stopped the worst of the blizzard, but the wood he had gathered had gotten damp in the night. The minutes were cold and long before the fire sputtered to life in front of him. He sighed in relief as warmth began to return to his stiff fingers. It tickled. He extended them and curled them slowly, checking for frostbite. Then he set a small tin full of snow on his resurrected fire. As it melted, he gathered the rest of his things. There were still some pieces of salted fish in his rucksack. They were cold and tough. Like the sea. But it felt good to have food in his belly after days of sake.

He waited until the snow in the tin had all melted before drinking. His thirst caught him by surprise. The water cleared the last of the fog and muffled the drums beating in his head. Once he had drunk his fill, he set the cup down. Then he spotted the distorted reflection wavering at the bottom of the rusted tin.

His black hair was dirty and knotted. Long ropes fell around his shoulders. His own personal set of chains. He had chosen to keep his hair loose to mask his appearance as best he could. Taliyah’s piece of twine was tight around his wrist. The memory of his student pinched. Shame burned hot against his skin. He pushed her out of his mind. Without his hair tied back, he was just another drifter. Not a samurai. Not even an Unforgiven. He had not shaved for several days now. His beard was thicker than it had ever been. His nails scratched against the coarse hair on his cheeks. Discontent was hot in his chest as he studied his own appearance. He fit the part too well for his own comfort. He had lived it for six years. He still woke sometimes, unsure which side of the reflection he was on. He wondered if there was anyone left in Katakari who remembered him. If there was, it would be with the memory of a headstrong samurai.

_Not a wandering drunkard._

Contempt for the man staring up at him was suddenly white-hot. Yasuo scowled and downed the rest of the water. The tin clattered against the floorboards and settled in the darkness of a corner. His shadow rippled against the floor as he stood.  

The air was sharp and cold when he stepped outside. He kicked aside the snow that had gathered against the door. The morning sky swelled in his lungs, blue and free of clouds. A forest pool. Cooling the heat in his chest and the pain in his palm. The sight of fair weather after so many days of storms lifted his spirits. He inhaled deeply and held it before letting it go. He watched his breath disappear into the blue air. Wishing the heat in his chest would disappear with his breath.

He had been on the move for several weeks now. It had been slow work making his way back north through only backroads. Out of sight of any curious eyes. It had not been an easy journey. The snows were knee-high in places. Temptations were waist-deep in others. And he had avoided staying in the same place for longer than a few days at a time. His money was snow melting in the sun. Buying silence and sake and soft company. But it had been years since he had made any headway on the identity of Elder Roku’s killer. Yone’s words were a flame in his chest. He could not stop now. Not when he was finally close to answers. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the fresh snow. Yone’s voice rang out in his ears. Louder in death than it had ever been in life.  

_The Elder was killed by a wind technique. Who else could it be? Who else but me?_

The memory was tight in his throat. Yasuo felt hot tears sting at his eyes. Unbidden and unstoppable. Anger and grief curled his left hand into a fist. His fingernails dug into the still-raw cut on his palm until it was impossible to not cry from the pain. He was motionless in the cold winter air for several minutes. There was a slight trembling in his fist. Leaves in the wind. Then the moment had passed, and his fingers relaxed. Fresh blood painted the snow red. The tears on his face smoked in the cold before they froze.

He had always thought it odd. Odd that his pursuers were so convinced of his guilt. More certain than he was of his own innocence at times. None had ever given him the chance to plead his case. Not before they attacked. Not before they died. No matter how many times he shouted words of explanation at them.

_The living listen even less than the dead do._

He had wondered too times over the past years as to why they were so adamant. Wondered at the bottom of glasses. In dug graves with bare hands. Against the skin of perfumed women. And now he finally knew. An answer written in his brother’s blood. Revelation was thorns in his palm. A tightness in his throat.

The world was against him. Yasuo knew that much. Had known that much for years. The case against him was more than compelling. The ink was dry.

_Only a fool would think otherwise._

 Yasuo looked at his palm. The blood was black and cracked like ink.

_A fool, indeed._

Only he had mastered the wind technique enough to wield it effectively. Effectively enough to kill an Elder with. He wondered whether he would have thought Yone guilty. If it had been Yone with tears in his eyes and pleas on his lips. Yone with his brother’s blood on his sword. Whether he would have cut him down without believing him. Died like Yone had died. Hindsight was clear and blinding.

_How could I not have known?_

The anger was red-hot as it turned inward. A poker in his gut. Revelation was the hand that drove the poker deeper. It was so obvious. Had always been so simple. As simple as killing a brother. His palm burned like blood in the cold.  

…

Yasuo’s things were slung over his shoulder. A single rucksack full of a lifetime of running. Guilt was heavy on his back.

His sword hung from his right hand. Wrapped in strips of cloth like a fishing rod. His knife was tucked into his belt beneath his cloak. A straw hat hid him from the sun and curious eyes. His sleeves were pulled down as far as they could go. Covering the tattoo that coiled up his right arm. A blue dragon. The brand of a warrior. As though clothes alone could hide a samurai.

_Not a samurai. Not anymore. Only Unforgiven._

He set off without looking back. The little shack disappeared into the snow. His feet were cold and stiff. The snow crunched and cracked beneath the tip of his sword. Nothing more than a walking stick now. Shame was a black pit in his stomach. Yasuo swallowed hard. It was hard to drown. Even with sake.

…

The main road was empty and free of snow. Firm earth felt like bliss beneath his feet. Yasuo sighed. The sun was high in the sky. Its light was bright but cold. Judging. He hid his face beneath his hat. He walked without thinking. Following his shadow. One foot before the other before the other.

_Wandering comes easy to the wind._

Katakari was only hours away now. If that. He had recognized some of the landmarks. The trees and the stones and the curve of the land. Memories rose unbidden in the back of his head. Ghosts roused from their graves.

He and Yone, children again. Cold and hungry and half-dead. More skeletons than children. Master Dao finding them on the side of the road. Sleeping inside for the first time in months. Master Dao bringing them to the school.

_My school._

Noise shook him out of the past. Figures had appeared at the edge of his vision. Yasuo had not been expecting them. His hand tightened around his wrapped sword. Friends were friends until they were close enough to drive a knife into your belly. He slowed his pace until he stopped. They had seen him, he knew. He had nowhere to hide. No time to hide. He let his left hand fall on the hidden handle of his knife. Casual.

The cart rattled to a stop in front of him. The two figures sitting on top were little more than black shapes against the sun. The demons of his dreams. The smaller figure held the reins. The horse was old and tired. Hot breaths rose like smoke. The larger figure held his leg gingerly. As if it had been injured.

“It’s too cold for a man to be walking alone.” The voice was gruff and aged. Snow-bearded with kindly eyes.

“It’s not the cold that kills,” said Yasuo. His hat hid his voice. “It’s strangers offering false comforts.”

The man exhaled loudly. Half a laugh and half in agreement.

“True enough. Though I hope cold feet suit you well.”

Yasuo’s smile cracked through his face. River ice breaking.

“They do.”

“And where do they take you now, stranger?”

“Katakari.”

The man was ice. Motionless and cold. His eyes were flint. No longer kindly. It was the smaller figure who spoke. A boy’s voice.

“Katakari? But Katakari is--”

“Quiet, Tenzin.” The man’s voice was a winter chill. Sharp and frigid. He looked at Yasuo. His eyes were the eyes of those who chased him. “Ionian?”

“Ionian enough.” Yasuo lifted the brim of his hat. Just enough to show sharp grey eyes and a high nose. “At least for now.”

The man was silent. Then he relented. He moved again with a grunt. The ice cracked. But his eyes did not soften.

“My son is right. There is nothing left in Katakari. Full of only murderers and thieves now. The Noxians left it for the wolves when they left.”

There was ice in Yasuo’s chest. His hands were shaking. He had not noticed. Neither did the man.

“What does an Ionian want with a ghost town?”

Yasuo’s palm was a line of fire. He clenched his hand into a fist to stop it trembling.

“I--”

He paused. No words came. It was painful when he swallowed.

“My family. It was my home. All I had.”

The man’s eyes softened further. The boy looked sad and the horse huffed loud in the cold.

“I’m sorry. We all lost something.”

 _I lost everything_.

The numbness in his legs was not the cold. Yone’s words echoed in his head. Over and over again. Answers slipped away between his fingers. Like the wind.

_Who else could it be? Who else is left?_

“My son and I are headed back home. To Yuukasha. Why don’t you come with us?”

Yasuo looked up. The man’s eyes were kind again. Even the boy looked hopeful. Something pulled in Yasuo’s chest. But the sword was heavy in his hand. And his palm stung like thorns.

“I…”

“There’s nothing left for you in Katakari, I promise.” The man’s voice was a whisper. From a father to a son. “Only ghosts.”

_But even ghosts have answers._

“I’m sorry. I have to see it for myself.”

The man nodded. Hesitant but understanding. The Invasion was a shared tragedy. Everyone had lost something. Ionia had lost something.

“When you’re done looking for… whatever you think you need to find, follow this road to Yuukasha. Find the house with the blue door.” He looked down at Yasuo. His face was set. “There’ll be a hot meal and a warm bed for you there.”

The reins cracked in the cold air. Like breaking ice. The cart rattled away. A passing dream. Neither of the two figures looked back. Yasuo stood alone on the road. He looked at where the figures had vanished.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the wind. He looked back. Up ahead at the road that awaited. Katakari.

_Thank you._

…

The wind was beneath Yasuo’s feet. It lifted them until he ran with a storm beneath his heels. At his back. Snow burst with each of his footfalls. A blizzard of his own. Breathing was tight in his lungs. But not as sharp as the pain in his chest.

_Who else could it be?_

The skies had darkened to midnight blue. To the west it was aflame. But the light was dying. Evening came fast in the winter. Nightmares came fast when one was running. The shadows of trees were cruel. The hands of dead men reaching for him. Damning him. Welcoming him back.

_Why did you leave them?_

Yasuo forced the building shame out of his chest with an exhale.

_I didn’t abandon you. I swear._

His feet were a hurricane.

…

It was ruins.

Yasuo walked slowly through what remained. Through his memories. Through the voices of shouting children and the sound of clashing swords. In the dark, snow and ash were the same.

The archway that had marked the entrance to the School of the Soaring Dragon had crumbled. From fire or swords, Yasuo could not tell. He knelt and pressed his palm to the wood. It was cold beneath his skin. A gravestone. He brushed away some of the snow. His fingers trembled as he traced the words carved into the wood. He could smell the poison now. It was sour on the tips of his fingers. Even after all this time. Zaun.

The rest of the school was a tomb. Yasuo walked through the ash and snow. A ghost among ghosts. The buildings had been burned down. They were black and hard among the snow. Bones after a funeral pyre. Yasuo looked at where the dormitories had been. Only ashes now. He looked at where he and Yone had trained a lifetime ago. Ashes. The Great Hall. Ashes. The temple. Ashes. The library. The armory. The stables. Ashes, ashes, ashes. His feet could not carry him anymore.

Yasuo crumbled like falling snow.

…

The School had been at the top of a mountain. The Dragon’s Peak. Katakari had risen around the base. Moss around an oak. The town had been large. Now it was nothing. Yasuo could see it as he walked back down the mountain. The lights were few. But they were still there. The man’s warning rose to meet him.

_Full of thieves and murderers now._

Yasuo’s hand gripped his sword tighter than ever. The coins of dead men clattered in his pockets. Bells that damned him.

_Welcome home._

…

The streets were all but empty. The town felt hollow. A shadow of itself. Yasuo walked through the streets with a hand on his knife. A shadow among shadows. Snow crunched beneath his feet. Noise came from behind closed doors. Flickering lights and the smell of alcohol. Tonight, his mind was clear.

The door beside him burst open. His knife was out when the girl crashed into him. He was heavier than her, and she tumbled into the snow. Black hair spilled like shadows over the white ground. She shivered. Behind her the door was full of raucous laughter.

“That’s enough for tonight!” came a voice. Loud and rough.

The door slammed shut. But the girl did not move. She shivered where she lay. Yasuo recognized her. She was the same woman he had lain with a thousand times before. All black hair and perfumed skin. The rose tattoo on the back of her neck was a brand. She trembled as she looked at him over a pale shoulder. Her nose was red from the cold. Her eyes were wet with tears and her makeup had been smeared. By tears and by greedy fingers. She placed one shaking against the hard snow. Tried and failed to push herself up. Her dress had been torn open. He could see her breast.

Yasuo exhaled. His breath was silver in the moonlight. His knife flashed as he sheathed it.

_You damn fool._

He knelt beside the girl. She flinched away from him as he reached a hand out to her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. His voice was anything but soft. “I won’t hurt you.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and brown. She placed a trembling hand in his. Yasuo pulled her to her feet. Gentle as a lover. She leaned against him once she was standing. She was cold. An ice sculpture in the winter. Her hands folded over her chest. Hiding her nakedness from him. She shook in fear and cold. Yasuo looked down at her. He could feel shame stirring inside of him.

_You damn fool._

He pulled the cloak off from around his shoulders. The winter air was like a fist. He inhaled sharply. Remembering his lessons. Remembering hours standing in the cold with a sword in his fist. The cold slowed and he felt hot breath spread from his lungs. The girl watched him as he tightened the cloak around her shoulders. But her eyes were on the tattoo that claimed his arm. Marked him.

“Go home. Get warm. There’s gold in the pockets.”

The girl nodded. She stumbled as she ran. Deep into the darkness of the town. Far away from him.

_You damn fool._

Yasuo readjusted his rucksack on his shoulder. He doubled his hold on his sword. His knife swung from his waist. Inviting. He walked until he found the largest building that still had lights. Conversation spilled out like flickering candlelight onto the street. He inhaled deeply. The door creaked loudly as he pushed his way inside. He felt a handful of eyes and their attention on him as he entered. He kept his right arm tucked against his body.

The bartender was large and new to him. He did not know whether to be happy or sad for that. He settled into an empty seat at the bar. He placed his hat on the seat next to him. The man looked at him with black eyes.

“What’ll you have?”

“Information.”

The bartender paused. He narrowed his eyes at Yasuo. At the half-covered tattoo on his arm.

“Information’s not free.”

Yasuo held the man’s stare.

“Sake, then. The strongest you have.”

The cup rattled as the bartender placed it before Yasuo. But he did not spill a drop. Two small bronze coins took its place. Yasuo drank it in a single swallow. It burned as it settled in his stomach.

“Now. Information.”

“What kind?”

“The informative kind. What happened here?”

“Where?”

“Katakari.”

The bartender blinked.

“Noxians.”

The fire in Yasuo’s stomach flared. He felt his fingers clench and his palm burn.

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“How long?”

The bartender glanced down. At the coins on the counter. Yasuo scowled. Two more coins joined the first. The bartender filled the cup again. Yasuo emptied it in one motion.

“Three, four years.”

“Why?”

“Why does a wolf kill? It’s in its nature.” The bartender shrugged.

“The Invasion didn’t reach this far north. What were Noxians doing here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” His black eyes lingered on Yasuo’s arm. “Where are you from, stranger?”

Yasuo smiled. A wolf’s smile, without humor.

“I thought I was the one asking questions. You owe me a drink for that.”

The bartender scowled. He poured another cup. Yasuo swallowed it and hated himself. Hated the fire in his belly.

“I’m from Katakari. Lived here years ago. It looked different.”

The bartender snorted.

“Everything looked different before the war.” He pulled down the collar of his shirt. A long angry rose of scar tissue wrapped itself around his neck. “Everyone looked different.”

His eyes did not leave Yasuo’s arm.

“What did the Noxians do?” Yasuo’s voice shook. Half from drink and half from anger held back by a string.

“Destroyed everything. A whole company came. Came for that damn school up on the mountain. Bombed the school with those poisons of theirs. Killed all the students and dragged off the masters.”

Yasuo’s hand clenched. His palm was burning.

“They didn’t kill them?”

“Not all of them. The Noxians only needed one company to do it. A thousand years that damn school has stood there. And it was just one Noxian company. That’s all it took. All the older students were off fighting in the south. They butchered the children like cattle in front of the masters. Made them watch if they didn’t surrender themselves.”

The heat was in Yasuo’s head now. There it beat like dragon flame against his ears.

“Which company?”

“I don’t know.” The bartender shuddered. A small motion for a big man. “But the Demon was there.”

“The Golden Demon?”

“No, fool.” The man’s eyes were black with fear. “The Noxian Demon.”

Yasuo blinked. Demons were not new to him. But his demons were Ionian. Not Noxian. Not yet.

“The Demon was there, horns and all. I saw him myself. A sword as tall as him and as black as death. He looked at me and I’ll never forget those eyes.” The bartender’s voice was a whisper. Yasuo leaned forward. “As red as blood.”

The door to the bar burst open with a loud crash. Yasuo spun around. Three men stood in the doorway. Swords were long and vicious in their hands. Behind them, Yasuo could see his cloak. The girl was shy and shivering. But her eyes were steady as she looked at him.

_You damn fool._

“ _Ronin_!” shouted the figure in front. _Unforgiven_. An ancient curse. His tattoo burned like ice.

Yasuo did not think. The sword was in the air before the wrappings had hit the ground. Steel flashed like the winter sun as it swung. The gust of wind knocked cups off tables and men from their seats. Yasuo was already halfway to the door when the first man had recovered his balance. His sword cut down with a scream and Yasuo’s met it halfway. Even with three drinks in his belly, Yasuo was the wind. The man’s arm hit the floor with a soft thud. The sword was still clutched in its fingers. The man fell with a high scream. Yasuo’s sword was another gust of wind. The door splintered before him, knocking over the other men. The girl screamed. Yasuo flicked his sword. Blood painted the snow black like ink. The girl fell backwards into the snow. Naked. Untouched. Yasuo left the screams and shouts behind him. Left them behind with the ghosts in Katakari. He tightened his cloak back around his shoulders.

 _You damn fool,_ he thought. Hating himself.


End file.
